


Show Me You're Mine

by Minerva_Holmes



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint is a sleepy puppy, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nature documentaries are a perfectly valid source of relationship modeling, Phil is smooth as good scotch, Post-Movie(s), Romance, Seahorses are freakin' amazing, Steve's patronus is a rubix cube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minerva_Holmes/pseuds/Minerva_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is inspired by both the <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/seahorse/">Kingdom of the Seahorse</a> documentary and the footage of <a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m93gcerV3b1qamwkoo1_500.gif">Jeremy Renner dancing</a> in the Avengers bloopers.  The result is likely as craptacular as that description suggests.  I also have to tip my hat to <a href="http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/22969203674/so-the-hawks-in-his-nest">Scifigrl47</a> and <a href="http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/post/22973883304/nest-making-is-complicated-this-inspired-by">Dr-kara</a> for the creation of actually-nesting Clint and his "loser sticks." Lastly, this is for mbaokea, who wanted some Clint/ Coulson fluff.  Sorry it got so angsty, Lady.</p><p>EDIT: Thanks to everyone who has commented and given kudos.  Here, have some internet-mediated hugs: *Huggles*  Also, I've now properly edited this for comprehension.  The spelling and grammar fails were shame-inducing.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Show Me You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by both the [Kingdom of the Seahorse](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/seahorse/) documentary and the footage of [Jeremy Renner dancing](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m93gcerV3b1qamwkoo1_500.gif) in the Avengers bloopers. The result is likely as craptacular as that description suggests. I also have to tip my hat to [Scifigrl47](http://scifigrl47.tumblr.com/post/22969203674/so-the-hawks-in-his-nest) and [Dr-kara](http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/post/22973883304/nest-making-is-complicated-this-inspired-by) for the creation of actually-nesting Clint and his "loser sticks." Lastly, this is for mbaokea, who wanted some Clint/ Coulson fluff. Sorry it got so angsty, Lady.
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to everyone who has commented and given kudos. Here, have some internet-mediated hugs: *Huggles* Also, I've now properly edited this for comprehension. The spelling and grammar fails were shame-inducing.

Clint focused on the hum of air passing through the Helicarrier’s ventilation system, willing the white noise to soothe the frenzied dervish-whirl of his thoughts.  Every sense clamored for attention with a clarity unnatural for persistent insomnia.  Despite the climate control, Clint felt the gritty slide of S.H.I.E.L.D. standard-issue sheets clinging to the sweat pooling behind his knees and at the small of his back.  His quarters must have been recently vacated when the Helicarrier touched down in New York, because the cloying citrus of industrial cleaners still clung to the air after three days.  In his mouth, his tongue searched out the rough, unpolished surface at the bottom of his upper, left eye-tooth where the dentist had filled in the chip he’d gotten from some AIM goon’s left hook on the last mission.  Natasha and Steve were using the incident as an excuse to require more hand-to-hand combat training for him.  He chose to see it as yet another reason why no one should or could handle him (or the Avengers) as well as Coulson.  Above and to the right of his bunk, the low-level running lights flickered twice.  They were always on when the Helicarrier was in flight, irrespective of sleep schedules.  He’d clocked the dim flutter to every 1.5 hours.  He’d ask Coulson what that was all about when he saw him next.

And so his thoughts came round again and again to Coulson – no, Phil.  Phil had been for many years the center around which many of his thoughts orbited, both before and after Loki.  And wasn’t that how everything had come to arranged itself in his life – Before Loki and After Loki – a jagged dividing line that felt too frequently like a autopsy incision.  Before Loki, Clint and Phil had been steadily working towards something, some semblance of a relationship.  “Barton” had become “Clint,” and “Coulson” had become “Phil,” and “staying late to get paperwork done” had become “sharing a take-away dinner while Clint talked and Phil got paperwork done, albeit more slowly.”  They’d moved in ever-narrowing circles around each other – building trust as whole selves beyond the limits of asset and handler.  After Loki, Clint had felt gutted.  Phil had died and left Clint with the knowledge that he had helped Loki kill Phil.  He had betrayed Phil’s, and everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s, trust.  Phil’s world-tilting survival, and even the revelation of Fury’s deceit, did little to lessen the bone-deep guilt and loss Clint felt.  After Loki, Clint knew there would be little chance for anything between him and Phil.  After Loki, Clint couldn’t even trust himself.  After Loki, Clint let himself become “Barton” once again, as he set about establishing the friendly distance of years before and made it his defining purpose to keep Coulson safe and alive.  He had to be satisfied with that, and if he couldn’t be, he’d bury it all deep and keep moving.

Weighing the relative merits of breaking into the range to work with his bow versus risking the company of other Avengers, Clint pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and shuffled barefoot to the common room.  The blue light of the television shone about three meters into the hall from the room, and Clint heard an accented voice describing a sea-bed habitat with lilting softness.  It had to be Steve sharing in his exile from sleep, then.  Clint didn’t understand why, but Steve usually watched documentaries about nature – mostly sea or ocean-themed – when he couldn’t sleep.  Steve was often a mystery, closed up tight like a fan for all of the openness his wholesome face promised.

“Hey, Cap,” Clint said as he rounded the corner from the hall.  “Insomnia kicking your ass again, too?”

“Language, Clint,” Steve said by way of hello, never once moving his eyes from the television screen.

“Dude, there’s no ladies around.  No one but you and me and the ass-end of dawn.  What’s on the glass teat?” Clint asked, detouring to the kitchenette to grab a bottle of water.

“ _Kingdom of the Seahorse_.  It’s really fascinating.  The sea grass is calming, and the seahorses are beautiful in their natural habitat.  I saw some at the aquarium last week, but this is different.”  Steve seemed mesmerized by sunlight filtering through the shallow waters before him.

“I gotta say, Cap, I don’t get it.  I mean, you were a life-size, deep-sea ice sculpture for 70 years, and yet the last three nights have been nothing but water-logged documentaries.  I’d be avoiding that shit like Stark’s lab if I were you.”  Clint seated himself on the end of the sofa opposite Steve and tucked his bare toes into the crease between two cushions.

Steve turned to look at Clint while he spoke.  The red haunting the corners of Steve's eyes bore witness to how long it had been since he’d managed to get a full night’s sleep.  “It’s terrifying, but beautiful.  Kind of like this future.  The two sides are inseparable.  If I avoid the terror, I miss the beauty.”

“Well, color me impressed.  You get pretty deep when you’re sleep-deprived, Cap.” 

 “Just watch the show, Clint,” Steve grumbled and turned towards the program before sinking into silence again.

On the screen, small, yellow seahorses clung to stalks of sea grass and swayed in the current like bright balloons in the wind.  The narrator’s voice, barely lifting above the background ambient soundtrack, explained the seahorse lifecycle.  “Seahorse reproduction is particularly intriguing.  While females of the species do indeed produce eggs which are fertilized by the males, it is male seahorses who carry and birth their young.”

“Whoa!  That is some freaky-deaky shit right there.” Clint couldn’t help but editorialize when faced with the frankly disconcerting sight of a male seahorse with a large “pregnant” pouch on its front.

“Hush!  You’re talking over the good parts, and you’ll wake the others.  Bruce and Tony went to bed not too long ago.” Steve glared at Clint with that look of fond disapproval that Clint swore Coulson learned from him, along with how to be infuriatingly self-sacrificing.

“Ok. Ok.  Don’t get your spangles in a bunch,  _Dad_.   I’ll be quiet and leave the Science Bros to their beauty sleep.”

Clint settled back into the corner of the sofa, pulling one of the blankets hanging along the back edge down onto his bare chest and arms.  He adjusted the mildly itchy, yet deliciously warm, wool of the homemade blanket just under his chin and breathed in the barely-there scent of cardamom.  The blankets, which had appeared suddenly one mission, were a topic of hot debate.  Bets were made about whose closet crocheting hobby had produced them.  The front-runners were Coulson, Hill, and Steve in that order.  For Clint, the cardamom told the story.  Bruce likely found the repetitive activity meditative.

Clint’s attention moved back to the program where two tangerine seahorses appeared to be spasming at each other while gripping the same blade of grass with their tails.  The “pre-dawn dance of seahorse courtship," the narrator called it.  The two animals would dance to each other each morning approaching their mating – announcing themselves to and recognizing their partner.  During one of the few times in their lives when they fully released their hold on the grasses that kept them anchored to the sea floor, the seahorse pair would swim free to dance with each other and mate.  Though Clint’s eyes bobbed along to follow the image of the seahorses swaying and dancing together, his mind remained fixated on the courtship dance.  “I am yours. I am yours,” one dance seemed to say.  “And I am yours,” the other said in response.

“I need to talk to Coulson,” Clint suddenly announced loudly into the room.

Steve startled and watched from the corner of his eye as Clint frenetically folded his blanket to place it on the back of the sofa.  “Whatever you’re going to say, Clint, I’m sure you’ll think differently about it once you’ve gotten some sleep.  Go to bed.”

“Not a chance, Cap.  You’re not the only man with a plan.  I’ve got to find Coulson.”

“Clint, it’s 4:30 in the morning.  Let him get some sleep, even if you can’t.  As you know, he’s still recovering.”  Steve caught a shadow of despair move across Clint’s face as the man turned to launch his empty bottle into the recycling bin.  

“I haven’t forgotten, Cap.”

Clint was already several steps into the hall when he heard the bottle land in the bin with a jumble of plastic pops and metallic pings.  He heard the sound of slippers brush against the common room carpet and paused to wait for Steve to speak.

“Clint,” Steve whispered with gentle affection into the dim of the hallway, “good luck.”

“Thanks, Steve.  You’re a good man, even if your taste in television is crap,” Clint replied and let himself sprint into the darkness of the corridor outside his quarters.

********

Clint careened into his quarters, launching himself first towards the small closet in the far-left corner by the bed and then back towards the door where the comm sat teasing with its sing-song mechanical hum.  Clint punched in the code for Phil’s personal quarters and tottered about the room hastily removing his legs from his sweatpants.  When Phil didn’t answer the comm in his quarters, Clint dialed up his office.  Pulling the pants of his field-suit up over his legs proved a bit more difficult than he’d hoped, and he stumbled, landing against the wall beside the comm with an “oof” just as Phil answered.

“Coulson,” Phil announced with a clipped tone far too put-together for the time of morning.

“Boss,” was all Clint could say as he braced his hands against the wall and pushed himself into a standing position.

“Barton,” Phil answered.

 _Damn_ , Clint thought, _we’re going to do that stupid-ass, single-syllable talking over the comm thing if I don’t get my shit together._

If the field-suit pants were a bitch, then the sleeves (however small) were murdering bastards, killing any composure Clint hoped to have in the conversation.  Clint thought he probably sounded like a perv breathing heavily into the comm while he dragged the suit over his shoulders.

“Is there something I can do for you, Barton?” Phil sounded equal parts weary and amused.

“What are you doing up at this hour?  You should be sleeping, Sir.”

“As should you.  Please tell me you did not call me just to inquire about my sleeping patterns.  I’m catching up on some paperwork, if you must know.  Your tooth alone requires two separate forms, Barton.”

“Sorry, Sir.”  Clint’s tongue sought out the grainy patch of filled tooth once again, and he felt regret slide down his nerves to clench like a fist in his navel.

“Stop apologizing, Barton.  As long as you come back in the semblance of one piece, the paperwork doesn’t bother me.”  The tone approached Phil’s patented, no-nonsense monotone, but failed to actually land.  Concern seeped in at the edges, and Clint let himself focus on that like a target.

“Can you meet me down on catwalk 64 between hangars 11 and 12 in fifteen minutes, Boss?”  A lingering silence met the request and was broken only by the sound of Clint’s zipper sliding up suit and his buckles locking into place.

“Is this an emergency, Barton?  I’d like to get this particular pile of paperwork done before I start on the next pot of coffee.”  The concern had left Phil’s voice and was replaced by a hesitant caution Clint wanted to remove permanently from his vocal repertoire.

“Suppose so, yeah.  Don’t worry, it’s not a med team kind of emergency.  I just really need you to come down.”  With those words and the last of the buckles on his boots fastened, Clint was ready to go.  

 _I hope I still have somewhere to go after that shit show of a conversation_ , Clint thought.

“Ok.  15 minutes,” Phil’s responded before the comm line went dead.

A wave of mission-like adrenaline swept over Clint, and he had to stop quickly and take a drink from the tap to wash the taste of aluminum from the back of his tongue.  Sparing a moment to glance at his reflection in the mirror, Clint regretted the action immediately; his hair looked a mess and his skin looked less sure than he about when he’d last eaten.  There was nothing to be done for it, so Clint left the concern behind and headed towards the hangars at a full-out run.  Phil’s office was nearer the hangars, and Clint needed to arrive before him.

********

Clint stood catching his breath as the echo of his boots falling on the steel grates of the catwalks faded slowly in the space of the hangars around him.  The familiar clawing of jet fuel at the back of his nose and throat did nothing to pull his body back from the fever-pitch anxiety that had begun to wash over him about halfway through the run.  On that catwalk Natasha had literally slammed him back into himself.  He often found it grounding – a reminder that he always found a way back.  It wasn’t working for him that morning.  He heard the sound of his fingers worrying at the zippers on the side of his vest before he was even conscious of his hands’ movement.  

 _You need to calm the fuck down, Clint, or this isn’t going to work,_ Clint admonished himself.   _Once Phil is here, focus on him and that will put your head right.  Concentrate on Phil’s voice just like you do when Phil give orders into your ear during missions._

The smart click-click of Phil’s oxfords on the catwalks reached Clint’s ears two minutes later.  

_Phil will be standing right in front of me in about 30 seconds and then it’s go time.  I am doing this shit, because Phil deserves everything I have to give, and I don’t have anything else but myself._

“Barton?” Phil asked and stopped a meter from Clint on the catwalk.

And with a moment to let himself focus on Phil’s voice, Clint turned and let go.  He wasn’t entirely sure that what he was doing could be called dancing.  Flailing was no doubt more accurate.  It was sad, really, because he’d been told more than once during an undercover op that he was a damn fine dancer.  But this was different.  He wasn’t trying to seduce a mark.  He wasn’t trying to blend into the crowd while also standing out from the same crowd just enough.  He was literally letting his body give voice to all the need and guilt and love and defeat and joy that he was laying at Phil’s feet.  Above his ears, his arms swung haphazardly side to side.  His head dipped back and forth over his shoulders, the movement a syncopated counterpoint to the thrust of his hips.  His feet remained firmly set on the ground, and the clench of his fists in the air was determined.  After thirty seconds of “dancing,” he stopped dead as the adrenaline dwindled, and he was left abruptly and thoroughly exhausted.

“I’m not sure I understand what it was I just witnessed.” Phil’s eyebrows stood high, admirably impersonating his hairline and there was a crooked smile threatening the right edge of his lips.

“Phil?” Clint managed to mumble from lips pressed tightly together above his chin, which rested heavily on his chest.  He wasn’t yet ready to look Phil straight in the eye, but he raised his head anyway and caught the gorgeous sight of Phil’s limbs relaxing with Clint’s use of his given name.

“Clint?” was Phil’s only reply.

“You’re s’pposed to dance too, Phil.”  

 _Shit_ , Clint chided himself, _I’m so tired I’m losing parts of my words.  Phil is going to think I’m  drunk at 5 in the morning, and that is so not helpful._

“When was the last time you slept, Clint?” One of Phil’s eyebrows shot up with the question.

“Not ‘mportant, Phil.  You’re s’pposed to dance back at me.” Clint knew it would be hard to explain to Phil, and that Steve was right, he really should have done this after he’d bunked for the night.

“Non-verbal ‘Simon Says’ does not count as an emergency, Clint?”  Phil’s slight grin was still there, and Clint counted that as a win.

“Couldn’t sleep, so Cap and I watched something about seahorses.  Seriously, that guy needs to stop watching stuff about the ocean.  It’s fucking creepy, Phil.  And Steve said this thing about beauty and terror and then the seahorses were dancing to each other because they were saying they belonged to each other and then I thought about what Cap said and about the searhorses dancing and how they never let go of the grass until they find their mate and dance together with them and then I realized I was so fucking scared, Phil, but I wanted the other part too, but not for me, for you, because you got stabbed through the heart and there should be something good on the other end of that, because that was fucking horrible.  So, I danced for you in the morning, and now you have to dance back at me Phil, because … please?”  Clint wouldn’t win points for clarity, but that was the best he had at the moment.

“I don’t dance by myself, Clint.” And that was not what Clint was hoping for.

“I’m sorry, Sir.  If you can just let me lie down for a bit here, I’m sure I’ll be good in a couple of hours and a couple of coffees.  Sorry to bother you, Coulson.”  Having given his apologies, Clint began the torturous easing of himself down onto the grating of the catwalk so he could catch a nap.  He was caught by two suit-sleeved forearms under his shoulders halfway through the movement.

“I said I don’t dance by myself, Clint.  I do, however, dance when I have a partner.”  Phil was actually smiling.

Clint could tell because he had raised his head, drawn to look at Phil’s lips by the affection in his tone.  Phil arranged Clint against his body in a sleepy approximation of how they would have slow-danced if there were music and this wasn’t a catwalk on the Helicarrier.  Clint’s left hand was slung high around Phil’s right shoulder and his right hand was caught up in Phil’s left.  Phil curled his arm around Clint’s left hip and let his hand fan out to rest on the small of Clint’s back, pulling until Clint was leaning against his chest.  Clint gave up the fight against his weariness and laid his head on Phil’s shoulder, resting his nose and mouth against Phil’s neck.  Clint wanted a blanket made from the fabric of Phil’s suits; the cashmere and wool blend felt like the softest caress against his cheek.  Phil began to dance slowly, leading them in a small circle of movement to a song only he could hear.

“So, you took a page out of the seahorse relationship guidebook and performed a morning courtship dance for me to tell me that you’re mine?” Phil’s huff of laughter swept through the hair on the crown of Clint’s head.

“Yup.  Made so much more sense when I was watching the show.”  There was another huff and a soft kiss was placed on Clint’s forehead.

“Seahorses?  Really, Clint?  I think you have your species mistaken.  Tony says you’ve been properly nesting in the vents above his lab since you moved into Avengers tower.”  Phil couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“Not nesting!  Just keeping an eye on Tony and Bruce.  Tony’s a careless ass sometimes.  I’m trying to make sure they stay in one piece.  They play with some ridiculous crap, Phil.  Tony calls it ‘nesting’ to rib me.  He even puts little sticks up there near my stuff.  Not even good sticks, Phil.  He should stick to tech.  You’d get me better sticks, Phil.  I know it.  You’re good at everything!”  Clint had begun to doze against Phil’s shoulder, lulled by the movement, the steady, miraculous beating of Phil’s heart, and the scent of firewood and coffee that always seemed to linger on Phil’s skin.

“And that’s my cue to get you to bed.  Come on, Clint, we can talk about this some more after you get a couple hours of shut-eye.”  Phil released Clint’s waist from his grasp, but kept Clint’s hand in his, pulling him along the catwalks and towards Clint’s quarters.

“You gonna stay, Phil?  You have to sleep too.  ‘Sides, you have to let me dance.”

“I have paperwork to finish, Clint, and you’ve already danced for me.”  Phil noticed that Clint was slowing behind him and stopped to move his hand around Clint’s waist for the rest of the walk.

Clint leaned his head against Phil’s shoulder.  “It’s not a one-time thing, Phil.  They dance every morning.  When I wake up again, it will still be morning.  So, I’ll dance again for you, and then you can dance for me.  I know you say you don’t dance alone, but I dance to show you I’m yours, and then you’re supposed to dance to show me you’re mine.”

They had reached Clint’s quarters and Phil led Clint to his bed to lie down.  He removed Clint’s boots and then his own shoes and suit jacket before sliding in alongside Clint.  Phil turned to Clint and placed a warm, chaste kiss on his lips.  

“Sleep, Clint.  I’ll set the alarm to wake us in two hours.  Then you’ll dance, because you’re mine.  And I’ll dance, because I’m yours.  And then we’ll both go to the cafeteria to get some coffee and food, because we’re overtired and underfed.”

A snuffle emerged from under Phil’s jaw where Clint had arranged his head.  “You should know, Phil, seahorses mate for life.”

Phil wrapped his arm around Clint and pulled him closer to his chest.  “Actually, that’s false.  Most species only stay with a partner for a mating season.  There are some birds, however, who are monogamous throughout life.”

“Not a bird, Phil,” Clint huffed and poked at Phil’s side.  “I meant it, though.  I know it’s not much, but you can have me for as long as you want.”

“I only ever wanted you, Clint.  I don’t need anything else.  I’m honored to have you as long as you’re willing and want to have me.  Now, sleep.”

Phil reached into his trouser pocket to retrieve his phone and set the alarm for two hours.  He thought about the “dance” he would receive again when he woke and smiled.  He knew Clint, and it was likely that the next dance wouldn’t be the last.  Phil pressed his still smiling lips against Clint’s forehead and settled in for his nap.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack for this fic: ["Running Up That Hill,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wp43OdtAAkM&feature=youtube_gdata_player) by Kate Bush


End file.
